 Poetry: October 31, 2007 Issue [#2043] |
  Poetry
This week: Edited by: Texas Belle  
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“From ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggety beasties,
And things that go bump in the night,
Good Lord, deliver us!”
Anonymous, of Cornish origin.
Goood evening, my precious, come into my parlour and have a nice cup of tea. There's nothing to fear, my dearies, really just a nice little newsletter about those things that hide under the bed! muwhahahahahahahahaha!
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The supernatural/horror and poetry come together wonderfully; both require a great deal of emotional commitment and can reach into the portion of the psyche often hidden from the closest acquaintance. The use of rhythm and rhyme can lull the reader into a false since of security allowing the poet to pull the reader deeper into the piece. What should a poet consider when constructing a poem a horror/supernatural poem?
First, the poet must be careful when using the common tools for poetry construction, rhythm, and rhyme. There is nothing wrong with rhyming unless the word choice in the pattern is such that the lines begin to sound childish or contrived. There is some license with sentence structure and the reader will allow for some deviation. However, too much deviation and the reader concentrates more on the sentence structure then the piece. The same is true with rhythm, to heavy a hand and the piece becomes sing-songy and looses what emotional power it contained.
Next, the poet needs to decide what level of fear or whether to include a supernatural element or not. Many writers think creepy, scary, and horror/terror or synonymous, but that can’t be further from the truth. The three delineate levels of fear and each contain subtle differences and the poet needs to know the delineations in order to write a convincing and memorable piece. Though the piece may not contain a ghost, good supernatural/horror writing haunts the reader long after the reading.
CREEPY First level of fear: the subject feels heightened anxiety and slight paranoia but is not certain from where the fear comes. There is a feeling that something isn’t right.
SCARY Second level of fear: the object of fear manifests itself to the subject. This is not only a physical object of fear, it could be of a psychological nature including the trite but effective “BOO!” from a surprise attack.
HORROR Third level of fear: the subject feels an intense, painful feeling of repugnance and fear. This is the reason that horror films often have gallons of blood and exploding body parts, there must be a sense of revulsion along with intense fear.
Now let’s see how a couple of masters handled this genre.
It may seem odd to include a poem by Emily Dickinson but this piece had an impact on me when I was younger. As a child, I wasn’t afraid of ghosts, I didn’t believe in them. I was thoroughly convinced that people died and immediately went to heaven until I read this poem in the fourth grade. This is what a very well constructed supernatural piece does, it quietly slips under the door that hides your fears and turns on the light.
Part Four: Time and Eternity
XXVII
Emily Dickinson
BECAUSE I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.
We slowly drove, he knew no haste, 5
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility.
We passed the school where children played
At wrestling in a ring; 10
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.
We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible, 15
The cornice but a mound.
Since then ’t is centuries; but each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses’ heads
Were toward eternity. 20
What would Halloween be without The Raven? It's like Christmas without "Christmas Yet To Come!" Well, actually, I know I should have said A Christmas Carol but CYTC fit this newsletter better, but I digress. Poe's perennial favorite has everything you could ask for in a creep fest: dark and dreary night, ea speaker froth with emo-angst, dead true love, and the appearance of a classic harbinger of death. Add to that the perfect marriage of rhyme and rhythm that haunts the reader long after the piece is finished. Not everyone likes the piece, as true with all poetry, however, it is difficult to find anyone who isn't left with a visual from this piece.
84. The Raven
Edgar Allan Poe
ONCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'T is some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door; 5
Only this and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore, 10
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore:
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating 15
"'T is some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door,
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door:
This it is and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; 20
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"—here I opened wide the door:—
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, 25
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore:"
Merely this and nothing more. 30
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore;
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore: 35
'T is the wind and nothing more."
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door, 40
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door:
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,—
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven, 45
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore:
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore; 50
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door,
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."
But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only 55
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered, not a feather then he fluttered,
Till I scarcely more than muttered,—"Other friends have flown before;
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore." 60
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore:
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore 65
Of 'Never—nevermore.'
But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore, 70
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining 75
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. 80
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!"
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! prophet still, if bird or devil! 85
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore:
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 90
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us, by that God we both adore,
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore:
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore!" 95
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting:
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! quit the bust above my door! 100
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, 105
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor:
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!
Take notice how both poets did not cheat the poem by using trite rhyme or short change the rhythm. They took their time finding not only the right word but the right combination to plant haunting images into the readers mind. Don't be afraid to delve into the dark side of poetry. Remember to stay focused, know what degree of fear you are going for and stay true the construction.
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If you dare visit these poets who took that walk:
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